Originally appeared in SKIER magazine, February 2007.
I picked up a dusty copy of Powder magazine today. Sometimes I dig through old issues in search of stories and images already burned to the hard drive in my head. It’s a journey through my past; a catalyst to unlock memories stored in the bank of useless ski knowledge stored behind hockey stats and Tragically Hip lyrics. As I thumbed the decade-old pages, I caught sight of a familiar article and a memory dislodged itself back into consciousness.
The year is 1996. I am standing in a 7-11. It’s 1:30 a.m. and I’m piss drunk, absently snacking on cold nacho chips and quickly-coagulating liquid cheese product while I scan the magazine rack. A cover line jumps out: “North Americas 45 Best Resorts.” I put the nachos down and pick up the mag…
Inside the Powder Resort Guide I found a profile on what, in those days, was still called Fernie Snow Valley. The author—the one-and-only Leslie Anthony—described a “… quintessential skier’s dream of steep, deep and cheap.” He spoke of jagged peaks, super-scary lines and living The Life. To a recently graduated and very inebriated 18-year-old, the article painted a clear picture of a skier’s utopia. I was sold. With a case of Lucky Lager coursing through my bloodstream and a belly full of salty tortilla, I decided to spend the following winter in Fernie.
That first winter was a lesson in ski-town cliché: I slept in a closet, spent most of my meager paycheque on alcohol and Kraft Dinner, and skied every day. The experience thousands before me have had and continue to. But when the spring rains came, washing the pungent smell of Aussie cologne off the small East Kootenay town, I left as well, happy to return to a well-paying job and a town populated with members of the opposite sex. I had no plans to return.
Naturally, the following winter found me back in Fernie. The potent mix of good friends and mind-blowing skiing trapped me amidst the imposing peaks of the Lizard Range. The harder I tried to begin my “real life,” the deeper I became ensnared in a ski bum’s dream. Eventually, an escape plan presented itself in the guise of going to school. Once again, I had no intentions to return.
Finishing school, I found myself where many post-secondary graduates do, working a Joe-job and wondering why the hell I paid so much to get there. When ditch-digging became old, I reached again for my old security blanket nestled in the Southeast corner of B.C. Like a scorned lover, Fernie allowed me back in, but only after I’d begged for forgiveness.
These days find me far from Fernie. This job and the peculiar constraints that come with it have forced me to relocate, leaving behind all that is comfortable and familiar. That’s not necessarily bad; humans have a disturbing habit of handcuffing themselves with routine and I never want to be limited by fear of trying something new. It may be years before I return to the town where I discovered what really makes me happy. But while some might find that distance depressing, I take comfort in knowing it’s there, waiting for me. Some people spend their whole lives and a lot of money searching for home. For me, all it took was one magazine article. —Mike Berard
